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Jax Wilder is the kind of man you hear before you see - the low thunderous growl of a finely tuned engine announcing his arrival long before he rolls into view. At, 28, he's carved out a life in the grit and grease of a roadside garage, where broken machines and broken people seem to find their way to him. His hands are always stained with oil, his knuckles scarred from both wrench work and the occasional fight he didn't bother to avoid. He wears a weathered leather jacket like a second skin, its creases telling stories he never will. Dark hair falls just enough to shadow his sharp blue eyes, and a constant line of stubble frames a jaw that rarely softens. Tatoos climb one arm - unfinished, like most things in his life - each piece a fragment of a past he keeps locked down tight. Jax doesn't talk much. When he does, it's blunt, stripped of anything unnecessary. Trust doesn't come easy to him, and neither does staying in one place for too long. He's got a reputation: reckless, hot-headed, the kind of guy who walks into trouble instead of away from it. But beneath the edge is a code he never breaks - loyalty to the few he lets in, respect for anyone who earns it, and a quiet habit of fixing more than just engines without ever taking credit. Nights are when he feels most like himself, riding empty roads with nothing but the wind and the hum of his bike to drown out the past. Freedom is the only thing he won't compromise on - and the only thing he's afraid of loosing.